A Circumference of Edges
by iRamble
Summary: They're always there to save each other, even when they don't know it.


**Disclaimer**: _All characters appearing in Supernatural are copyright Kripke/CW/WB etc. No infringement of these copyrights is intended. This is my original work of fiction based on those characters/that universe. No Beta's were harmed during the writing of this piece._

**A/N:** _Set post season 10._

_Thank you to all readers/reviewers/favouriters/followers, for this or anything else._

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**A Circumference of Edges**

Sometimes it's like he's about to fall.

There's a small space on the top of the world. The last place left on earth perhaps. And sometimes he's afraid he'll fall from its edge.

He can stay there for hours then, in the dark, staring at the silent, sleeping form of his brother, and he feels like he's high up on that cliff, with his back to the world. If he were to turn away, if he were to take a step back, he knows he would just fall forever.

Sometimes, there's a part of him that wants to, a part of him that's too tired to hold on, and maybe that's what scares him more than the falling; the fact that he _wants_ to fall. Perhaps that's why he stays there, too scared to move, focussing on the only thing that's ever kept him grounded. That one thing that keeps him surefooted and tethered.

Sam.

His reason to have more strength than he should.

It's the only thing that stops him then, seeing Sam lying there, asleep and oblivious. Unarmoured and open, fragile in a way he'll always be in some part of Dean's eyes, as if that version of Sam was imprinted permanently into the golden flecks of Dean's iris the first time he ever laid eyes on him, and he knows then that he can't let go. No matter how defeated he feels, no matter how hard it gets. He knows he has a job to do. And that makes the fear of letting go subside.

As long as he's got Sam, he has all the reason he'll ever need to keep holding on. It's the only reason there could ever be.

He's never known how to explain it.

He's never tried.

He doesn't even really know when he first felt it, can't remember that far back. But there's pain and panic at the thought of leaving Sam behind, and both feelings stab through his insides faster and brighter than a lightning strike, blinding him to any other outcome or concern.

The first time he stood on tip toes and looked over the bars of Sam's cot, he doesn't remember his feelings in that moment with any conscious reckoning, isn't aware of the significance of that act with any comprehension that can be acknowledged. But he'd looked down from over the edge then, had seen that tiny little being there, and Sam had looked right back, had held the gaze and hiccupped a smile, and there was no turning back for Dean after that. Like a stamp embedded on hot wax, or a strike etched forever in stone. Even if Dean didn't know and even though he can't remember, that was the first time everything else fell away behind him, and the edge of the world was borne at his heels.

He catches the essence of that feeling in dreams still. It wraps and twists and moulds itself into whatever new peril they're facing, whatever new peril threatens Sam in his eyes. Then evaporates the instant his eyes open, replaced by conscious memory.

But the truth of it, the purity of it, remains. It sustains him, has sustained the _whole_ _world_, whether it knows this or not.

Because despite his resilience and strength, there have been times in Deans life when he's come close to giving up. Closer than he's willing to admit. Staring down angels and Death and gods and fate, fingers grazing the promise of a wrong choice held out before him like a lifeline made of loss and defeat, of lies and deceit. A loose-hanging bridge into the void.

All it takes is one look at Sam, and he finds his footing then, knows where the edges of that last place left on earth are. He knows why he can't let himself fall. Knows which way to face.

It haunts him though, that feeling, that knowledge, the desire to give in and let go, even if he doesn't realise it.

If he walks through the halls at night and Sam is asleep, he can't help but linger outside his room, even if the door is closed shut. He can't help stopping, resting his hand on the door, closing his eyes and stilling his breaths till he's almost not breathing. As though he's leaching strength straight through the walls.

He doesn't know why he does it. Doesn't dwell on it because it would mortify him to acknowledge himself there, in that moment. But it's no secret to him how much he needs Sam.

Sometimes when they're asleep in the car or some anonymous motel room, he'll wake up in the middle of the night. He'll tell himself he's just stretching out the kinks in his spine. But honestly, he doesn't know who he's fooling, creaking there in the darkness; he knows he just craning to see Sam there.

He can't do it when Sam's awake, can't look at him like that for too long, for no other reason than because he can't _see_ Sam like that. When he's awake Sam is too alert, too conscious, too proud, self-aware and far too contained to reveal the essence of what Dean protects. There are too many walls and too much damage and too many fissures that splinter the image, like light passing through fractured ice, all wrapped up in a bundle of iron-barbs and pyre smoke. The core of Sam is self-obscured and Dean doesn't want to look that hard, for all the hurt that's worn its way around that once innocent child like so much mottled, hardened scar tissue.

Sam for his part would hate it if he knew. Would rile and buck and rage and rant, the indignity of being seen the way Dean sees him sometimes being almost too maddening for him to quell.

As if Dean can control it. As if he can help it.

As if an ocean has any choice but to crash into the rocks, breaking itself into oblivion, time and time again.

_You need to let me go._

Dean's heard that from Sam, one way or another, more than once.

_You have to let me go._

It twists something in Dean he can't explain. And it's something neither of them can understand; the only way Dean can let Sam go, the only way he ever will, is to turn away from him. Step away and beyond that edge and fall.

But he just doesn't know how; he's simply not designed that way.

Even if the edges are always there; skirting a void filled with fear of having lost him.

He's learnt to accept that reality by now. The edges of that clifftop are scattered all across his life, are hidden and lurking in his every-day world. He's learnt to accept that it's a deceptive space, one in which he's never very far from an edge, even if he won't see it till he's already there.

He can feel it looming around him even now, sat there on the hospital chair. It's more comfortable than most chairs, he'll give it that, and it's not designed for tilting that way but still, Dean can feel the abyss behind him, can feel the vertigo clambering at his gut, pulling him backwards into that void.

There's no reason to stay. Just Sam's bruised ribs, maybe a mild fever from too long a time spent in sub-zero temperatures. But nothing Sam hasn't had before. Nothing Dean needs to stay for. Nothing _they_ need to stay for really, if Dean were to be completely honest.

But Dean's still half convinced Sam was just a breath away from frozen solid, because it had taken Dean _too damned long_ to find him in the snow-filled caves. They'd killed one of the creatures, an Ikuutayuq, and Sam had gone ahead. But the second had got the jump on Dean before he could follow and they'd lost one another. It felt like a lifetime trying to find Sam after that.

If it weren't for that, if it weren't for that fear of losing him, Dean would have dragged both their sorry asses out of there already, no matter what the kind-of hot doctor advised.

And it's Sam who needs the overnight stay, not Dean, because there's nothing wrong with Dean that hadn't already been wrong with Dean. In fact, he's doing better than he's been in a while, all things considered fairly.

But the snow in the night is merciless now, howling and churning around the small med-centre like it's the convergence of some arctic vortex.

And it's the middle of the night already anyway.

And the clinic is far warmer and quieter than their motel room.

And he couldn't find his way back to Baby through the storm now even if he tried.

And…

As if any of that even matters, because Sam is there, should stay there, so really, where else would Dean go?

And even though Sam's fine, even though Dean can see it, it takes all of Dean's will-power not to reach out and grab onto him, to reassure himself that he really is okay. Because there's still that last remnant of fear, echoing around him from the moment he found Sam cold and unmoving on that pile of frozen dead. He needs to reassure himself that his world hasn't ended, that he hasn't lost his little brother. That he's still got his reason to keep holding on.

"You don't need to stay you know. You can leave anytime." Sam tells him again, as if he can read his anxiety. "I'm fine."

_You have to let me go._

"Yeah." Dean acknowledges, ignoring the twist, turning on the TV instead and feeling with that action gravity solidify beneath him, even as the world seems to tilt and fall away behind him. His hand twitches a reflex to grab onto his brother and he balls it up into a fist, supressing the impulse. "_That's_ gonna happen."

Sam doesn't even bother respond anymore. He's too tired to argue, almost too tired to be annoyed. And Dean's hospital chair looks more comfortable than most have done in their lives, he has to concede that.

They bicker about what to watch, half-heartedly and without any vitriol, Sam citing his poor state of health, Dean volleying his lack of bedding, and they finally settle on football.

It would be a congenial compromise, if they hadn't already known it was what they'd both wanted.

They pick opposing sides, just to keep it interesting, and the verbal jousting subsides after a while, easing them into a silence. For them it's as close to vacationing as they've been in a while, and the only thing missing then is alcohol. When the commercials come on and the beer sponsors runs riot, Dean has the audacity to raise his eyebrows in a silent question; _beer and snack run?_ and Sam can't help but frown, shake his head, exasperation, or perhaps apprehension, as to what might actually happen if he let slip even the slightest hint of encouragement right then.

They're in a hospital after all.

And they're in the middle of a snowstorm.

And he's already imbibed some dozen drug cocktails.

And the doctor would be Dean's type, after a few.

And…

As any of that even matters because deep down, the truth whether he admits it or not, is that he just doesn't want Dean to leave.

He relaxes when he senses Dean resign in the chair.

He breaks the silence eventually, but doesn't know he's speaking till he's already said it and even then, he's not sure he said it out loud.

"I couldn't stop the blood or… keep him warm enough… I couldn't get… a fire going."

It needs no explanation; Dean knows he's talking about the victim he'd gone after, searching through a labyrinth of ice alone. Ikuutayuqs horded victims to torture to death, and the man Sam had been clinging to had been the only one left in one piece on the stockpile, deep in those freezing caves. Dean's not even fully sure he believes the man had been alive when Sam found him, but it wouldn't make a difference either way; he was dead by the time Dean got there.

He also knows it isn't Sam's fault, just like he knows there's nothing he can say to assuage Sam's guilt, just like he knows it's as much his own fault too for not finding them in time. He wants to say he's sorry, but a part of him can't fully commit to the sentiment, because Sam is safe and that's all that matters. That's all that will ever really matter to him.

But none of that will make any difference to how Sam feels.

The chair doesn't even creak beneath Dean when he shifts his weight, but the movement is all that was needed; Sam knows what his brother is telling him.

Outside, the snowstorm plays out like a white noise machine, filling the world beyond their walls with noiseless static, cocooning them in, and the drugs are getting to Sam now.

His pain has ebbed away almost to a low whisper but the price for that is unconsciousness. For some reason he doesn't want to let it ensnare him, feels a slight rush of panic grip him whenever he slips into its clutches, and then his head snaps back up in retaliation, wide awake. But not for long; his head slumps again and the cycle repeats.

He doesn't know why he's trying to stay awake. Doesn't know why he's afraid. Dean won't say a thing, but Sam's not stupid enough to believe his brother hasn't noticed. His brother notices everything. It's as irritating as it is reassuring; his very own mobile safety net, even when he doesn't want one.

He can't fight the drugs forever though. He can feel his eyelids sliding shut, can feel the heavy weight of weariness descend on him, tugging on every limb and muscle and sinew inside him as the exhaustion and drugs finally win.

It's like he's falling. Or about to fall.

Or perhaps he's already fallen.

He can't tell which, can't tell which is worse. He's pretty sure he's done them all.

Whichever it is, he can feel it; the edge of everything crumbling at his feet, the world collapsing all around, and he's just standing still, like he's completely surrounded, stuck in a concentrically decreasing space, with nothing but edges from which to fall and running out of moves to make.

As if it would matter; he couldn't move if he tried. The fear has him cold, the uncertainty of his own morality is stabbing at him, over and over, leaving him paralysed, because there's nothing there to show him the way, to affirm his choices. To absolve him of his sins.

There's a memory contorted in his mind, a feeling buried deep and from as far back as he can't even remember and he's not fully aware of it even when it resurfaces. Perhaps it's the first time he fell in a playground, losing his footing on a climbing frame, seeing the receding bars above him as they slipped from his grasp because he wasn't strong enough to hold on. Perhaps it's the first time he fell during a hunt, being chased by something unseen, panic-stricken that it would be upon him before he could get back to his feet, because he wasn't fast enough to keep up. Perhaps it was the last time he was standing at the mouth of Hell, and Lucifer had almost won because he hadn't been innately good enough to make the right choice.

That knowledge scares him.

But it's not that he's afraid of dying. Or afraid of pain. Or afraid of being alone or being left behind or anything so survivalistic. The root of his fear, at its core, is something much simpler, something much more complex.

After all his missteps, all his mistakes, the fall isn't death, the fall is his failure. He's afraid he'll move in the wrong direction, because sometimes he's not sure he knows the right way, and then one wrong step will take him over the edge and he'll fall; because he made the wrong choice. Because he wasn't enough.

Again.

His world is full of edges, like a tightrope of them, if that's even possible. He's constantly worried he'll make the wrong choice because he's done that oh so often before.

And it's happening again, just for a split-second, the man he couldn't save is slipping from his grasp till he's lost to the void, and Sam is left afraid and alone and full of guilt, and he feels _so lost_, so powerless and small, as if the whole world, big and unstoppable and full of mistakes, _his_ mistakes, is looming around him, is about to crash down and crush him till he'll be lost in it forever, and he can't see a thing because he's too scared to move in case he goes the wrong way because he's not good enough to trust his own gut and it paralyses him.

He can't remember the first time he ever saw Dean. It must have been from his crib, but he can't remember that far back. But he knows Dean was there, watching over him. The first time he fell in a playground, tears about to well and overflow, anger and shame at his own inability, he looked up and Dean was there. The first time he ever fell during a hunt and John, racing ahead, didn't notice and for a second he was sure he'd get left behind, Dean was there.

Any time he's faced Lucifer, seeing the world through hell-stained eyes, feeling like he was falling further and further into insanity.

Hopelessness at his own lack of strength to defy him.

Dean was there.

Pulling him up. Pulling him back. Showing him the way. Being where Sam always needs him to be.

His brother's eyes change when they look at him. Something in those golden flecks softens, yet brightens. It's not something Sam can explain. He's not sure when he realised it, but when Dean was a demon, that's when it hit home. There was something missing then, a light almost gone out, a warmth turned tepid, and when Dean looked at him then, it left Sam cold. The look his brother had always had for him, that affection his eyes held even when they were angry at him, the absolution that Dean always afforded him, it wasn't there.

Those eyes are eyes that terrified him, more than even Lucifer's true face ever has. The hours he spent with Dean after that, bringing him back, they still haunt him. But he knew, the instant he saw him again, the instant those golden flecks reacted to him, he knew his brother was back.

He still catches himself sneaking a peek at Dean, just to make sure it's still him. Just to catch that genuine look, because that look is what he needs to see to reaffirm his place in the world.

When they're driving, or when Dean's stuffing his face, or even when they're just sat doing nothing, Sam will take a quick glance, just to check. And then he has to look away when he finds his confirmation, because it's too overwhelming to feel what he feels then, to see what he sees then. There's a look Dean gets when it's really him looking back, a look Sam knows is borne just for him, and it makes something in Sam's heart swell. It feels almost like an ache, but it's a pain that Sam needs, because without it there's no point to feeling anything, no point to atoning his sins.

It's the pain of being loved even when you feel you don't deserve it. It's the pain of being seen as better than you believe you are. It's the pain of wanting those things to be justified.

It's the bittersweet promise of hope; the reasoning for which he's almost too afraid to believe in, yet the existence of which he eternally needs.

There's some version of himself reflected in Dean's eyes and that version still gives him faith that all isn't lost after all.

As long as he's got Dean, he has all the reason he'll ever need to keep hoping. It's the only reason there could ever be.

His reason to have more hope than he should.

He's always afraid that someday the love he sees there will die out, whether it's from a demon or from his own actions, from one mistake too many. That is his most secret, most private fear, one even Lucifer doesn't fully comprehend and can't touch, because Lucifer, pitiful for all his bluster and belligerence, has neither truly loved nor ever been truly loved in return.

Unlike Sam, who knows what it's like to lose that love, because for a fraction of his life, the Mark took it from him.

The abyss for Sam, the void, the darkness beyond all the edges in all his life, is filled with his failure, filled with the emptiness of a world in which Dean would turn his back on him. In which Sam has failed him, one too many times. In which Dean has simply let go.

Sam doesn't really remember most of this, lying there on that hospital bed. Won't be fully aware of the memories his fevered, drug-addled mind is racing through. But his breathing changes in response to the fear, until Dean's grip settles on his forearm, steady, solid and firm, drawing him back from an edge he didn't even see till Dean pulled him away from it.

"S'okay Sammy."

And everything stops, is left to crumble and decay behind him, and it doesn't matter, it won't ever matter, as long as Dean doesn't give up on him, doesn't give up on _them_. As long as Dean pulls him back and keeps holding on. The world can fall away around him but as long as Dean is with him, he knows he won't fall with it. He knows where the edges are, which direction to go, even if that's blindly. Knows there's still reason to hope.

"S'okay… I'm here."

The only reason there will ever be.

"…I've got you."

For either of them.

Sometimes it's like he's about to fall.

There's a small space on the top of the world. The last place left on earth perhaps. And sometimes he's afraid he'll fall from its edge.

High up on that cliff, with his back to the world, if he were to turn away, if he were to take a step back, he knows he would just fall forever.

But that will never happen.

There's someone holding on to him. Someone pulling him to safety. And there's someone he needs to hold on for. Someone he needs to hold on to.

Stood in that space, the edge is irrelevant, when all is said and done, because they're not alone; his brother is with him, will always be with him.

And he isn't afraid anymore.

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_The End._

_Thank you for reading._


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